Salvation
by Sydella
Summary: Belphegor seems like a carefree prince, but appearances can be deceiving. Character study. (Very vague hints of XS)


As God is my witness, the truth is that I never really wanted this to happen.

When Xanxus and Squalo came to take me away, I had been lying on the cold floor of my prison cell for days, maybe even weeks. I can't remember. Time is hard to tell in that place, anyway.

"Trash." I remember my new boss looking at me with an unreadable expression. "You have a new home now."

"I'm a prince," I replied, my thoughts wandering. "Royalty and trash don't go together. So I'm not trash." Then his words registered in my brain, and with considerable effort, I managed to sit up. "Wait. Did you just say that I have a…"?

"New home, yeah." Squalo paced restlessly around my cell, drawing my gaze to him. "That's what we're offering you. Oh, and a job, of course."

"A job?"

Squalo sighed impatiently and finally stopped pacing. "You're supposed to be a genius, boy. Don't you see? We're giving you a new life."

"One in which you will have to _end_ other lives." Xanxus stood near the only window in the room, sunlight illuminating half of his face. "Become an assassin and who knows, you might live to see twenty." His lips stretched into a grim smile.

Reader, you must understand my position. I am a prince with a disgraced family and my own twin's blood on my hands. And they found me, you know, with their black hearts and cruel eyes. How was I to say no? Who was I to refuse them?

I remember church bells tolling somewhere far away as my new future fell over me and embraced me like a lover. I know all too well the murderous look in my boss' eyes as he captures another target, and all the while Squalo just smiled and smiled like a man beyond redemption.

Blood bubbled at the corners of my lips. "I'm in."

X

Colours, textures and sounds. These are the very things that make the fabric of reality. Yet, humans are surprisingly good at deceiving themselves. Just one snap and the fabric begins to unravel. Just one break and the cracks begin to show.

Mammon says I am mad. He does not know the half of it.

X

In this house, I suppose there is nothing to complain about. Servants dressed in livery wait on us hand and foot. Our food is prepared by award-winning chefs. We have Jacuzzi baths in our suites and our beds are piled six inches deep with silk cushions.

But still. And yet.

X

Rasiel and I were virtually indistinguishable during childhood. Same haircut, same tiara, same Flame. Same everything.

No. We are not the same.

I wore a white shirt. He wore black. Such a small difference, it may seem. But if there's anything this godforsaken world has taught me, it's that sometimes small differences make all the difference. White, after all, is typically associated with purity in Western societies. Black, on the other hand…well, you know the rest.

So is this a story of good triumphing over evil? Where does he end and I begin?

I don't know. You tell me.

X

I can't even use my eyes anymore. Or at least, I can't use them the way I used to. Approximately two-thirds of the world's leaders are baying for my blood and the remaining one-third are in the Mafia. Imagine that. As a result, I can't look at the world with the eyes of a human anymore.

The thing is, there was a time when I was sane.

The point is, I don't know what sanity feels like anymore.

X

I kill people for a living, and I'm good at it. Of course I am. When I let my knives out for a little fresh air, they dance for me. They walk, you see, into my victims' bodies and glide around until-oh! A vein! The carotid artery, eh? Well then, it's been fun playing with you, but you have to come back to Papa now. And another one bites the dust. Blood sprays in all directions and I remember kneeling in front of my father; there was something in my hands and I said _Dad, what's this? I found it in your old playroom._ and he said _Oh, Belphegor, don't you know? That's a Jack-in-the-box._ The sunlight only illuminated half of his face and my mother, the queen, put a hand over her mouth. Whether she was hiding a smile or preventing herself from speaking in my father's presence, I can't say.

Jack in a motherfucking box.

X

("Whatever illness Bel has," Xanxus muses out loud, "it's probably incurable."

"Probably." Squalo's voice carries the merest hint of sadness, but when Xanxus looks over at his second-in-command, Squalo is smiling again.

"You're right, of course." The swordsman turns away. "You always are.")

X

How do you think I feel when I look in the mirror and see his face, _our shared face_ , staring back at me? Sometimes when I've been taking a bath for too long, the mirror fogs over and I cannot help but feel a sense of relief.

Even so, I am still stuck with this face forever. I wish I could just take one of my knives and carve it right off. It would be so easy. First the skin and then the bones. Cartilage, sinews, everything-it would all fall apart at the seams and then Mammon would say _Now look what you've done, Bel. What are you going to use as a face from now on?_

"A new face, huh." The stupid quack doctor, Sham or whatever his name is, sighs and leans back in a creaking chair. "Back in my day, people just asked for normal things like slimmer thighs or prettier hair. Now it's new this, new that…you think I'm a magician or something?"

"I didn't actually say I want to do it, you sick fuck." I get up and flee the kitchen.

X

In the end, I suppose there is a kind of salvation to be found in the purging of souls. This is a church. The blood of everyone I kill turns into holy water. Battlefields and warzones are where I go to worship; the bodies of my victims are the altars and pews.

Rasiel is not in heaven. He cannot be. I refuse to believe that he is.

X

("So if I were to ask you for a diagnosis…" Squalo coughs delicately, pressing a gloved hand to his mouth for a moment. "Hypothetically speaking, of course-"

"Of course."

"What would the diagnosis be?"

Dr. Shamal is too old and tired to be playing these games, but knows that the Sword Emperor will kill him in a heartbeat if he refuses to answer. "Well, it's hard to say. Some kind of narcissistic disorder, perhaps? I believe rigorous medical tests would be necessary in order to form conclusive data. Perhaps consulting with my colleagues shall give you a better idea."

Squalo nods, a thoughtful look on his face. "Narcissistic, you say?"

"That is my summation. Nothing more." Dr. Shamal holds up his hands. "It's just a theory. Make of it what you will.")

X

When all is said and done, I guess I've won. I am alive and Rasiel is dead. But strangely enough, I still love him.

Oh, don't get the wrong idea. I do not love him in the way normal families love each other, with pure loyalty and affection. Oh, no. I do truly love him in a terrible way, though. They say that twins share a special bond and if one dies, the other loses a part of himself as well. I suppose that's why I'm so fucked up. Wherever my twin is now, I'm willing to bet that he's laughing and clutching a piece of my soul in his equally blood-soaked hands.

Rest in peace, brother.

Amen.


End file.
